He sat in his car, eyes on the country club’s gates. During a fourteen-minute period, five luxury cars arrived, punched in at the call box and, when the ironwork swung open, cruised through confidently.

The sixth car was Tina Balleron’s white Cadillac and Jeremy was waiting, standing several feet in front of the gate, when she pulled up.

Not a new Caddy. Five, six years old, with dark-tinted windows and chromed, spoked wheels. A thin red pinstripe bisected the robust chassis, and a fresh wax job repelled moisture.

Like Arthur’s Lincoln, beautifully maintained.

The dark windows were rolled up. When they lowered, Jeremy noticed they were much thicker than usual- a good half inch of convex glass.

He’d expected Tina Balleron to be startled by his presence, but her face was serene. “Dr. Carrier.”

“Your Honor.”

“Do you golf?”

Jeremy smiled. “Not quite. I was hoping to speak with you before you teed off.”

She glanced at a diamond wristwatch. No black pearls today; a pink cameo on a gold chain. Diamond chip in the coral woman’s eyes. One of Tina Balleron’s silver-nailed hands curled on the Cadillac’s padded steering wheel. The other rested on a cream-colored ostrich handbag. A long fur coat lay across the rear seat.

She said, “Let me pull over.”

She parked behind Jeremy’s car. He followed on foot, heard a click that meant she’d unlocked the doors, and headed for the passenger door.

The passenger window lowered. The same thick glass. “Come in out of the cold, Jeremy.”

When he opened the door, he felt its extra weight. The panel closed with the hiss of a bank vault. An armored car.

He slid onto the passenger seat. The car’s interior was ruby red leather. A tiny gold plaque on the glove compartment was inscribed: To Tina, With All My Love, Bob. Happy Birthday!

An August date, just over five years ago.

So there had been a husband. Maybe there still was.

The ostrich purse rested in Tina Balleron’s sleek lap. She wore a baby blue, knit pantsuit and navy patent shoes. Her champagne-tinted hair was freshly done. The fur across the backseat was dyed mink- a precise match to her coiffure. A crystal bud vase bracketed between the windows on the driver’s side held a single white rose.

“So,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for Arthur. I haven’t been able to reach him in nearly a week.”

“He’s traveling.”

“I know that,” said Jeremy. “He’s been sending me postcards.”

“Has he? Well, that’s good.”

“Why is that?”

Tina Balleron smiled. “Arthur’s fond of you, Jeremy. It’s good when people express their fondness, don’t you think?”

“I suppose… does he travel much?”

“From time to time- Jeremy, my dear, you can’t have driven all the way out here to discuss Arthur’s travel habits. What’s really on your mind?”

“I’ve been getting other things in the mail- the hospital mail.”

“Things,” she said. Her fingers played with the clasp of the ostrich-skin bag.

“Articles from medical journals- on laser surgery. Then an account of a ten-year-old murder in England and a piece on physician suicide.”

He waited for her reaction.

She didn’t offer one.

“Judge, I assumed Arthur was sending them to me because I couldn’t think who else might be behind it. But he’s in Europe, so it’s not him.”

“And you’re puzzled.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“And you drove all the way out here to indulge your puzzlement.”

Indulge; same word he’d used when rationalizing.

“What’s behind it,” said Tina Balleron, stroking the bag. “That sounds as if you think it’s a plot of some sort.”

“I guess I do feel that way. The articles arrive unannounced, unexplained, and I can’t find any reason why I’d be the recipient. It’s a little unnerving, wouldn’t you say?”

Tina Balleron turned contemplative.

When she didn’t speak, Jeremy said, “I assumed Arthur was sending them because he’s interested in violence- from what I heard at supper, you all are.”

Balleron unclasped the purse, clicked it shut. “And you consider that an unusual interest.”

“Violence?”

“Life-and-death issues,” she said. “Wouldn’t they be core issues for any civilized person?” She waved a hand around the car. “Pretty things are nice, Jeremy, but in the end they’re all diversions.”

“From what?”

“Important issues. Arthur’s a man of substance and experience. One lives a certain amount of time, one experiences.”

“You’re saying there’s something in Arthur’s past that has given him-”

“Don’t worry about Arthur, my dear.” She reached over and rested her fingers atop Jeremy’s sleeve. Stay on target.”

“What’s the target?”

“That’s up to you to find out.”

“Really, Judge-”

She hushed him with a finger on his lip. Angela had done the same thing.

Be quiet, little boy.

A Mercedes pulled up to the gates. Its window rolled down, and a well-fed male face smiled at the judge.

“Hank,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as ever, Teen. See you on the green.”

The Mercedes rolled to the gates, and the gates swung open automatically. An unseen sentry- up at the guardhouse- knowing who belonged and who didn’t.

Balleron smiled at Jeremy. “Nice to see you again, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our little chat short. Tee time is sacred. Golf’s less a game than a religion. Miss one’s start, and one incurs the wrath of one’s cobelievers.”

Her hand left his wrist and lowered the sun visor. On the inner side was a mirror, and she checked her reflection. Opening the ostrich purse, she pulled out a compact and began dusting her face.

Fixing herself up for golf?

Leaving the ostrich bag wide open and allowing Jeremy to see what lay on top of the usual female stuff.

A shiny little automatic pistol.

Tina Balleron knew he’d seen it. She clicked open the door, and said, “Bye, now.”

“Judge Balleron, something was said that night. ‘Expediency trumps virtue.’ It caused the room to go silent-”

“Silence can be a virtue in and of itself, dear. Till the next time, then.” She smiled and leaned over and kissed his cheek and clicked the door open. Jeremy got out of the Cadillac, and the white car rolled toward the gates of the country club.

She stopped. Down came the window.

“By the way,” she said, “I inquired about those gannet birds- the little monogamous thingies Harrison told us about. You suggested a population issue. I can’t find evidence of such.”

She smiled up at Jeremy.

He said, “Okay.”

“Maybe,” she said, “they just do the right thing.”

She raised the window, resumed driving. Jeremy stood there as the gates rolled open for her. Leaving him outside.

The outsider, always the outsider.